


I Bet My Life

by blue3ski



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Bastille-inspired, ReunionFic, happy 1st deathday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 11:39:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4058635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue3ski/pseuds/blue3ski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows it, the second he hits rock bottom. He's been waiting for it for almost as long as everyone has, and he almost welcomes it when it comes. Ironically enough—or maybe appropriately enough—Retribution plays the song that once belonged to him and to those he once called "brothers".</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Bet My Life

" _Can anything be imagined so ridiculous, that this miserable and wretched creature, who is not so much as master of himself, but subject to the injuries of all things, should call himself master and emperor of the world, of which he has not power to know the least part, much less to command the whole?" –Michel Eyquem de Montaigne_

* * *

 

He regrets it sometimes, when that certain mood strikes. They've somehow gone their separate ways since he left them, and knowing them both as well as he does—the one who's been abandoned so much it almost shouldn't have been a shock when it happened again, and the "blessed" one who needed to learn that particular life lesson the hard way—it was probably natural instinct that led to that fallout. It really was a job well done, when he thinks about it objectively. But he's human, and he gets a little sentimental at times. When he does, he kind of wishes he sees them together more often. Just so he doesn't see too often that he broke something that was once perfect.

His new "family" had asked him why he didn't want to bring either of them with him when he'd first agreed to remain "theirs" for the promise of bigger, brighter things. He knew, of course, who they were hinting at. The one who's never doubted him, who would follow him without question. Besides, they could use a new, young powerhouse. But maybe there was still something that didn't quite want to leave the nutcase behind without something to hold on to. So he just told them he didn't want competition, that he didn't need the past to tie him down when he was gunning to be the future. It made perfect sense for the peacemaker who turned out to be the most selfish brat in recent history.

So he does his best to make sure those hints of conscience are really, really rare, honest. Because he's not a good person, and they all know it now. No more secrets, no more surprises.

He knows it, the second he hits rock bottom. He's been waiting for it for almost as long as everyone has, and he almost welcomes it when it comes. He fights, because that's what he does despite what many believe to be the contrary. But taste of Retribution is intense—bitter and metallic—and it overpowers everything else. So of course he has no chance (in hell, as his employer is fond of reminding everyone). It's not long before he's robbed of most of his senses.

But wait—Retribution takes on more properties than taste. There's sound too. Ironically enough—or maybe appropriately enough—it plays the song that once belonged to him and to those he once called "brothers".

There are fingers, hands, tugging at him, and he wonders why they're not done yet. He feels like he's literally being torn in two. There is a roaring in his ears—yep, there's no doubt that's he's loopy now because it sounds so  _familiar_. The he's suddenly being heaved backwards and dragged along a cold surface that no longer feels like the ring. Ow. He's still not wearing a shirt, and that  _scrapes._

"Do we really have to drag him?" a low, smooth voice murmurs.

"Yep," a raspy, higher-pitched one responds immediately. "That's for our backs the first time. We hit him in the head when we get to the back, that's part two."

There's a low chuckle, and now he can make out cheering. It kind of hurts his ears. So it's a real relief when it turns dull and he hears more low voices in its place. Is he in the back? He tries opening his eyes—he kept them closed because he'd rather imagine that he's just asleep and having a nightmare. The moment he flutters his eyelids, his head crashes against something hard and makes him see stars.

His eyes have apparently been forced open, because the next thing he sees is Dean is grinning impishly down at him, a touch of cold cruelty at the corners of his mouth. "Whoops."

"That's gonna leave a mark." A few strands of damp, perfect black hair brushes over Seth's face, and it's Roman, of course. He would know that hair anywhere.

"Great, now we can break his neck," Dean practically sing-songs.

Seth knows that Roman is rolling his eyes even without looking at him. It's like an animal instinct.

His brothers yank him up to a semblance of a standing position, hard, by his arms. He squeaks in protest, and Roman is kind enough to steady him with a hand on his back. "Walk," he grumbles. "We're not carrying you all the way out like your nannies probably did."

J&J. Seth's personal security had gotten fired when "they" had decided to "cut back" because "he didn't need them anymore." The memory still makes him…upset. And not just because that was probably the first sign of the beginning of his downfall that was the most obvious. But because they liked him, as dark and terrible as he was.

He tries to keep himself upright on wobbly legs. His vision is fully clear now, and that's nice. Unfortunately, his head smarts. Dean rolls his blue eyes, and he lets Seth lean on him a little as Roman remains a steady presence on Seth's left.

Their path is blocked by Dolph and Daniel. Dolph's eyes light up, and he smirks at the state of Seth. He opens his mouth to make a snarky comment before Dean grumps at him. Dolph sighs, and both of them move out of the way.

"He probably can't hear too well right now anyway," Daniel quips.

"You're right. It's no fun if he can't fully appreciate us rubbing it in," Dolph agrees.

After that, no one else stops them, although they are definitely staring. Probably because Dean has the crazy eyes going and Roman has his "I'm not taking crap" face on. For his sake. In his still-slightly-dazed state, Seth finds it utterly cute. He thinks about saying it, but doesn't because even as lost as he is, there are some things you don't say in certain situations.

There is probably one thing he should say, though. One thing that would be appropriate. But you don't apologize for stabbing family in the back and laughing about it for months on end without any visible trace of remorse. Seth does not need to be told that he was wrong.

A blast of cold wind hits him in full in the face as Roman pushes the arena door open.

"We're still dressed," he points out. Both of his brothers actually stop, turn, and look at him like he's an idiot. Like, seriously, that's the first thing he's saying to them tonight. After all the hell he gave them.

"I'll let you run around in your birthday suit if you want," Dean quips dryly. "Might be cold, though."

Seth rolls his eyes even though the motion hurts. "No, doofus. I mean, we're still in our gear. And we have things in there. Which are probably getting burned right about now."

Dean immediately and unceremoniously drops his half of Seth, causing Roman to grunt and grumble at him in annoyance. Seth vainly tries to support more of his own weight on his still-jelly-like legs. Dean is prancing back inside, and Seth thinks of telling him to be careful. Those who had him put down will be after the blood of the three of them (just like old times). But he remembers who else is in there. They'll help Dean. At least, Daniel will. If only because he owes Dean a favor or two at this point. He'll be fine.

Roman continues to half-drag him outside. Seth thinks they're headed to the car, but nope, Roman just props him up against the wall while he stations himself outside the door, almost as if he's daring the glass to come at him. Such a mama bear. He never changes.

They both wait in silence. Seth shivers and curls in on himself a little. Because Dean was right, it really is kind of cold. But it's easier to handle than the current state of awkward hanging between him and his former (not-so-former?) partner. Not that it looks like Roman is waiting for him to say something, but Seth feels like the opening is there. He tries opening his mouth, closes it, licks his lips.

A loud ruckus from inside the building has him pushing off his perch and joining Roman. Roman turns to look at him like, "dude, what?" Because Seth is still barely upright, but he really doesn't need to be adding to the list of things he needs to feel bad about. He doesn't know if Roman somehow learned mind-reading while they were apart, but he doesn't say another word and instead turns his attention back to the glass doors.

Dean is running pell-mell down the hallway, a bag on one shoulder and his beloved leather jacket on the other. His free hand is holding Seth's bag. Dolph is hot on his heels, hair poofing all over the place and also carrying a bag. Daniel is third in that race, and he's running backwards. He's facing a motley crew of cronies, led by Big Show. Roman charges forward and pulls the door open just in time to stop Dean from literally crashing through it.

"You didn't forget my conditioner, did you?" Roman asks as he pulls the bag from Dean's shoulder.

Dean wheezes and points behind him. "He's got it." He tosses the jacket to Seth. "Put that on." Seth could make a million arguments about how Dean is just wearing a T-shirt and how he's probably just as cold, but there's really no time for that, so he just slips the garment on without a fight. Dean looks visibly relieved.

Dolph tosses the bag he's holding right into Seth's abs, causing his breath to leap from his lungs in a whoosh. "You guys better get going now."

"Daniel—" Seth begins, but Dolph shuts him up with a narrowed glare.

"Just go, Catwoman. I got him."

Roman shoves Seth forward, and they're running for the parking lot. Seth is practically thrown into the backseat, and  _thump, thump, thump—_ the three bags land on top of him in succession. By the time he gets them all off him and properly arranged around him, they're already moving. Roman is riding shotgun, and Dean is in the driver's seat, laughing with exhilaration.

"Who let him drive?" Seth yelps, his mind flashing back to the last time he was in a car Dean was driving. For an atheist, he sure prayed hard that night.

"Relax, he got better," Roman replies smoothly. There might have been a trace of mirth in his voice. He's fiddling with the radio now like his insurance is all updated—now Seth hopes fervently that the Authority maintained his before they decided they'd rather kill him. He has dogs to take care of, for heaven's sake.

"I'm hungry," Dean announces. He turns to look at Seth. "You did bring money, right? Because you're paying."

"Of course I did." Seth scowls at him. Well, dinner is a small price to pay for the things he can't say. He digs his wallet out of his bag and begins to shrug Dean's jacket off.

"Hey!" Dean snaps suddenly and loudly. Seth jumps and freezes. "Keep that on," Dean continues, his voice back to room temperature as he makes a turn. "Suits you."

Seth can hear Roman chuckling in the passenger seat as he slowly lowers his arms back down and tucks the leather more tightly around himself. He could probably pull a shirt on now, but for some reason, he feels more comfortable like this.

The artificial glow of Roman's phone's screen lights up the dim car. By force of habit, Seth almost leans forward automatically to see what he's looking at. But he forces himself to stay still. It's not like before. He's a guest now, instead of family. He'll treat them to a good meal for coming to his rescue, but there can't be anything beyond that. He'll have to figure out how to somehow survive on his own now, because it was his choice from the start to leave home.

Dean pulls up to a McDonald's drive-thru, and Seth bites the inside of his mouth to keep from making a comment about how terrible fast food is and he could afford to take them someplace nicer. Probably should. But Dean and Roman are already placing their orders nonchalantly.

"What do you want?" Roman asks Seth. There's a smirk on his face, so  _of course_ they know exactly what they're doing. Seth rolls his eyes. And then he gets fries, because he feels like a little kid. Dean looks like he's trying to hold in his laughter so that "hahahaha" isn't included in their orders. Seth passes Dean the money he needs, trying to ignore the wide eyes of the teenager who's got their food.

Dean sneaks a couple of fries before he passes the container to Seth. It's so domestic all over again, and it's so unfair. Because they're probably headed to a hotel next, where they'll drop him off and maybe tell him to take care of himself while they continue off to wherever they were planning to go before he got shoehorned in. Well, at least he'll have his fries to keep him company.

They've been back on the road for a few minutes when Dean suddenly screeches to a stop. He turns around and says to Seth, "Get out."

Well, OK, he was being booted out a lot sooner than he thought, and in front of a liquor store, no less. He probably should not have expected less from Dean. So he grabs his bag.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"But you told me to—"

Dean rolls his eyes. "You didn't think you were done paying for dinner, did you? And you gotta help me carry things."

"…Oh. Gimme a sec." He reaches down to get a shirt.

"Nope. You're going out like that."

" _Dean—_ "

Dean folds his arms across his chest.

"Hurry up," Roman complains. He still sounds amused.

"OK, OK!"

So that's how he ends up standing at the counter, feeling super self-conscious clad only in Dean's jacket and his leather ring gear while Dean happily picks out bottles and bottles of booze and the few people in there stare at him. He's so relieved when he finally gets to pay, he doesn't even look at the total. He doesn't even quibble when Dean makes him carry everything.

Roman is leaning against the hood when they make it out of the store. Dean takes charge of handing the drinks out, and he's soon resting against Roman while he nurses a cold one. Seth stands a little further apart. He feels like he's intruding.

"I waited up, you know," Roman says after a swallow. Seth blinks at him, trying to figure that statement out.

"After you, uh, ran off," the bigger man continues, gazing into the distance.

"I cleared my stuff out of the room," Seth reminds him, looking straight ahead too. "You should've known I wasn't coming back."

"I know. But I did."

Seth isn't surprised. He expected it, on some level. But it doesn't stop all the starch from churning in his stomach as he looks down at his drink.

"I—" He clears his throat.  _Sorry. Please forgive me._ OK, nah. That's not like him. Not anymore. "I did what I had to." There, that's more like it. It doesn't feel enough, though.

"What would you have done if we didn't come and save your ass?" Roman asks.

Seth lets out a snort of a laugh. "Take it. And try to survive." He takes a big swig, trying not to think about how that's going to become his reality from now on.

"So you didn't even think of us." Roman sounds flat, which means he's wounded.

"Like you were going to even want to help me," Seth points out.  _But I would have, of course I would have. First choice, every time._

The next thing he knows, there's a fist in his face. The bottle he drops just barely misses his boot.

"Dumbass," Dean snaps as he blows on his curled knuckles. There's emotion churning in those blue eyes, and they look a little wet around the corners. Seth reaches up and wipes at his split lip with a hand that's shaking slightly.

Roman grabs Seth by the shoulders and then pulls him into a suffocating hug. Seth can feel wetness on his forehead, and he's not sure if it's from Roman's hair or from…something else. His ribcage feels like it's going to crack.

"You're home," Roman mumbles into Seth's hair, and Seth can't believe this is happening. Doesn't Roman understand, even after all this time, what he did? He doesn't get to have anyone's forgiveness, least of all theirs. And he sure doesn't get to have a  _home._

Roman finally lets him go, turning his back quickly. Seth's not sure if he heard a sniffle.

Dean steps forward and adjusts the collar of the jacket on Seth. "If you try to give this back to me, I'll punch you again." He studies Seth's expression carefully, as if to see if he gets it.

He does. He'll keep the thing 'til he's a hundred, if he can.

"Like that's a threat. And I look stupid," Seth retorts, trying not to smile.

"I'll break your teeth. Which I'm gonna do anyway," Dean promises as he goes to get another bottle to replace the one Seth broke so unceremoniously (it was Dean's fault anyway). Roman is reclining against the hood again, head tilted back and drinking steadily. This time, Seth joins him, with Dean on Roman's other side.

They're not done talking. They might not even be done fighting. Seth's definitely not done feeling guilty. But he's starting to realize that, maybe, they won't turn him out. No matter what. You know what, heck, he can bet his life on it.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted on Fanfiction.Net on January 31st after rewatching Payback 2014 got me all up in my feels and Bastille released their remix of Imagine Dragons' I Bet My Life. I heard this song and literally went, "OMG, this is the most Shield-reuniony song ever." Though Immortals by Fall Out Boy and Sovereign Light Cafe by Keane provided an extra musey boost too. 
> 
> Reposting here on the anniversary of the Shield breakup because why not *sob*


End file.
